


hope is a dangerous thing for a man like me

by writerintxedark



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, F/M, Lots of fluff I guess, M/M, a fair share of angst, and so is Thomas, flint has a cat!, flint is a dramatic bitch, flint is an university student, i love them so much help, kind of enemies to friends to lovers? but not really, miranda is the greatest friend in the world, summer break realness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:07:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25887064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writerintxedark/pseuds/writerintxedark
Summary: someone once said that hope is a bird’s wing broken by a stone. James wasn’t much of a man of hope himself, given the inevitable pessimism of his existence, and those undecorated words ended up following him relentlessly throughout the years to come, slipping through the chasms of his mind every time he’d find himself disgruntled or unsatisfied with outcomes he could not possibly control, despite his need of doing so. When he first met Thomas, he had hoped for many things. One of them, the most prominent one, was that the other man would just fuck off.・・・・・・ or ・・・・・・where james and thomas are two halves of a whole idiot who take a little bit too long to realize their feelings about each other.
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/Thomas Hamilton, Miranda Barlow/Captain Flint | James McGraw/Thomas Hamilton
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	1. three eggplants and a carrot

**Author's Note:**

> hi!  
> enjoy the reading and please check the end notes for some additional information (if you want to, of course) ;p

Someone once said that _hope is a bird’s wing broken by a stone_. James wasn’t much of a man of hope himself, given the inevitable pessimism of his existence, and those undecorated words ended up following him relentlessly throughout the years to come, slipping through the chasms of his mind every time he’d find himself disgruntled or unsatisfied with outcomes he could not possibly control, despite his need of doing so. It happened a little too often, especially for a man like him, whose entire personality was built around the premise that one _should not_ expect much from such a decadent and perverse world.

However, James was also unfortunate enough to know that, sometimes, hoping was _everything_ he could do. To hope and to plead to impalpable forces, nameless spirits and merciful gods, that _it would not be his final ruin_.

When he first met Thomas, he had hoped for many things. One of them, the most prominent one, was that the other man would _just fuck off_.

⁎ ⁎ ⁎

James loved the summer.

He loved the smell of freshly baked bread, newly brewed coffee and the lasting citrus scented candles that would assault him in the spring of morning at his mother’s house. An assault, he soon came to realize, he wasn’t disapproving of, not in the slightest. Being away from campus — and especially from everything it bore — for a well-deserved summer break was too much of a blissful feeling for him to care about how early his mother made him get out of the bed. For him, it only meant that he had more time to devote to being _remarkably_ lazy and weary around the house.

But, of course, his mother was not the fondest of idleness and vagrancy.

“James, my dear, I need you to go to the market-place for me,” she said one of those mornings. She was a short woman, slightly bulky, with bright and heavy curly hair, ginger as James’ own. Their resemblance was undeniable. James had inherited many of her features, including her kind, amiable green eyes, that sometimes seemed a bit displaced, even incongruous, alongside the pointed lineaments of her face.

James simply nodded, his mouth still busy with a particularly savoury lemon cake.

“Maybe you could even go and visit your _friend_ , Miranda,” she continued, a suggestive smile on her thin lips. “You been a bit lonely, love.”

“I haven’t,” James managed to say, suddenly too flushed for his own good. “I have you, and Walrus, too. I’m never lonely.”

Walrus was their cat, a chubby Persian one, almost as old as he was. He was cranky and demanding, but was also very loving and affectionate. With James, at least. One could argue that he was not the most sympathetic lad with other people.

Anyhow, James loved him greatly.

“You know what I mean, James.”

“I don’t.”

His mother let out a soft laugh, caressing his bare forearm from across the table.

“Alright, then. Hurry so we’re not left with the vegetables no one else wanted.”

⁎ ⁎ ⁎

On his way to the market, James thought about Miranda. They hadn’t talked in over a year, since the _incident_. He had contemplated calling her many times over the months, but was too stubborn and proud to do so. James missed her immensely, but wouldn’t admit it even in his deathbed. He was just resolute like this.

He wasn’t sure about how he felt about her now. Miranda was, without a doubt, the one who knew him the most in the world. And, more importantly, the only one who _truly_ understood him; at least, the only one who had been brave enough to _try_. If she was successful at it, though, was still rather arguable. James wasn’t the easiest person to manage — this he could knowledge effortlessly. He was obstinate, reclusive and undemonstrative, and would doubtless prefer a slow and agonizing death than to be proven _wrong_ or incapable. Miranda was awfully aware of that.

But, after everything that happened, was she still willing to put up with him? He doubted that. Profoundly. So, too scared to know the answer, James would simply do what he knew how to do best: avoid it, _avoid her_ , for as long as he could, _because what’s out of sight is also out of mind_.

It was a pleasant morning, James realized, walking down the street.

The morning breeze was, by the time, already warm and mild, not more than a tender caress to his soft face, still a bit swollen and flushed from the sleep that had barely worn out. He strolled through the town, calmly, trying to make up for all the time he had spent away from it. He had missed the old buildings, their sumptuous arches and tall, adorned windows that were nothing but placid and quiet reminders of a past he was extremely thankful he wasn’t part of. He loved the flowers dripping in the balconies, the honeysuckle curling around the fences, the cobblestone streets that stretched all the way around, meandering around the houses and shops. He was, in particular, very devoted the sea that rested with a serene poise in the horizon, looking up at him like an old friend welcoming him home. James had the constant feeling, since he was a child, that _somehow_ he belonged to him. If it was the sea that belonged to him, or he that belonged to the sea, was still unclear even after all those years.

James couldn’t even begin to explain how happy he was to be there. To be home.

It was already past eleven when he got to the market-place. James wasn’t the most indulging in human interaction or, god forbid, _small talk_ , especially if had in the morning, so he put his headphones on as soon as he arrived. He chose one of the random playlists he was recommended and turned the volume all the way up. If he could avoid the trouble of opening his mouth and force his tongue to form coherent sentences and his face to draw friendly smiles, he would.

But, unfortunately, his efforts weren’t always enough.

“Hello, James.”

James recognized Miranda’s voice even through the blaring sound of the drum and the bass of _Mr. Brightside_. He turned around on careful heels to face her, contemplating with an earnest seriousness the idea of running away as he did, his hands occupied with three massive eggplants and a single carrot. Only then did he realize he had forgotten the cloth bag his mother had pointedly told him to not forget.

James’ had a dreadful memory. He prayed Miranda had, too. 

“Those are some big eggplants you have there,” she said. The tone of her voice was playful and James, who hadn’t had the courage to look at her yet, knew she was smiling even then. If it was a friendly smile or a devilish grin, he couldn’t tell. “What are you planning to cook?”

James hesitated, then said:

“Uh… I-I don’t know.”

Cursing himself for stuttering, he moved his eyes up to meet hers. After putting the eggplants back in the stand, being extremely careful as he did, to make sure they wouldn’t get lost amid the rest of them, he turned off the song. His mind lingered still on the eggplants when he finally looked up at her. 

“I thought I would find you here,” Miranda said.

“How?”

“Your mum told me I would.”

 _Of course she did_ , he thought.

“You look good,” Miranda said. She reached for his hands, involving them in the embrace of hers. They were soft and warm and James almost _lost it_. The casualty of the gesture, the tenderness in her eyes, it all drove him into a state of profound disorientation. For some reason, Miranda didn’t seem upset nor bitter; at best, she seemed genuinely happy to see him. James couldn’t quite understand _why_. “I guess Boston has been nice to you.”

“It has,” James said. He was lying. “You look good, too.”

“I know,” she agreed, laughing amusingly. James realized, as an oppressive necessity for her wrapped its hands around his throat, lungs and everything it could reach, that he _missed Miranda greatly_.

“Miranda, _darling_ , you ready to go?”

When James turned his head to see who was there, he was meet by a pair of inquisitive blue eyes towering slightly over him. He retracted his hands with an abrupt motion, collecting himself with sudden abashment. He discreetly stepped away from the other man, uncomfortable with how close they were standing. James could smell the delicate fragrance of his cologne and the fabric softer of his clothes and it made him terribly dizzy.

“Thomas Hamilton,” the man offered, extending his hand in his direction with a kind smile on his face. James took it with reluctance.

_Of course his hands are soft and warm, too. Of course._

“You must be James. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

Miranda, whose presence James had forgotten until then, stepped closer to Thomas, smiling so affectionately at him that some part of James irrupted into flames and disappeared as she did. When she then wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling him towards her with so much fondness and casualty — _exactly_ how she used to do to him — James felt his heart diminish, turn into a marble and get lost inside his chest. A marble that, someday, would find a way of chocking the life out of him. 

“James, are you alright?”

It was Miranda, pinching his arm softly. James, who was most certainly not alright, nodded.

“I need to go,” he said, hastily, and then darted away.

He heard Miranda calling after him, but he didn’t have the strength to look back.

It was with great sorrow he later realized, gasping for air as he leaned against the door of his house, that the eggplants were left behind. He had never in his life felt so enraged and hurt before. Because of the eggplants, of course. _Just_ because of them.


	2. Chapter 2

Walrus and James were _sunbathing_ in the backyard when Miranda arrived the next morning.

And, by sunbathing, it meant they were both sprawled in the verdant ground, only a beach towel propped beneath them, as they hid relentlessly from the sun by the old fig tree. Its long branches and full leafage served as a quite good shelter and for that they were immensely grateful. It hadn’t been James’ idea, of course, to sunbathe. His mother had read an article about the benefits of sunlight and had made them go outside ridiculously early in the morning. Walrus didn’t mind, of course, as long he had a peaceful time and could nap all he wanted. James, on the other hand, felt like she was trying to torture him, likely because of the incident of the day before. So he laid there, gloomy and resentful as one could be, and genuinely enjoyed how nice and warm and delightful it felt to be there. Of course, he’d never let his mother know that.

James savored, with profound appreciation, the way the sun rays danced between the green foliage and elongated branches, the gentle rustle of the leaves as they benevolently shifted, the casual pouring of light onto his skin, the smell of basil and ripe figs and dirt and mowed grass. James felt alive, and it ached. There, he longed for intangible things, caught between abstract wants and eluding feelings and an abstruse yearning for something greater, something he couldn’t quite touch or taste or see or _be_. James felt at peace, then, but he was at war. A war he had declared many years before, but was incapable of calling off, let alone win, for it had proclaimed him too. He was at war with who he _used to be_ , with who he _was_ and, more importantly, with who he was _going to be_.

“Hello.”

Miranda had slipped by his side unnoticed. James, who had been solemnly caught in his thoughts, sat up rapidly at the sound of her voice, alarmed all at once. His hair was disheveled and his eyes, widened by the surprise, held so much conflict Miranda felt herself being dragged by the ankles into it, even if for the brevity of a breath. James then blinked once, tiding vainly his hair, and any vulnerability she once saw there dissipated into the perennial crater of his eyes.

“What are you doing here?” James then asked, his voice still coarse from disuse. He tried to tuck away his exasperation, but failed. He knew he wasn’t rightful of it, of being mad at her, and yet he was. Being furious about something seemed to be the only constant thing about him.

Miranda smiled, not one to be frightened by him, and sat by his side.

“I was wondering if you’d like to come to the beach with me,” she said, “but it seems that you are quite busy already.”

She was wearing a floral red dress, knee length, and matching glasses and sandals. Her brown hair was tied loosely by an orange scarf, the one James had given her many years before, and it looked to soft and good-smelling James felt the urge to hide his face into it. 

“Not really,” James admitted. “Mum made us come outside.”

After that, Miranda was silent for some time. James ripped a handful of grass, caught under her attentive eyes, trying to seem normal and together, for whatever it meant. He could tell she was trying to _unravel_ him, to _solve_ him, as she often did — inquisitive eyes, soothing words and lulling touches. When she was successful, she’d extract from him anything she wanted; when she failed, she’d be left with less than she had before.

“Stop it,” James said, glaring at her out of the corner of his eye. “You don’t get to analyse me anymore.”

Miranda seemed amused. “I don’t?” James nodded. “And why’s that?”

James shrugged, unwilling to tell the truth. He knew where it would lead, and he wasn’t ready for that yet.

“Tell me,” Miranda inquired. “It’s good to let things out every now and then.”

James laughed, more bitterly than he had intended, and reached back for Walrus. The cat sprawled further onto the towel under his touch, twisting slyly into his chubby belly and stretching lazily his little arms towards him. James laughed again, soft-hearted this time. Miranda smiled, soft-hearted too, but it wasn’t at Walrus she was looking at.

“We ought to go,” she announced, abruptly, and rolled onto her feet.

James watched with a slight raise of an eyebrow as she pranced back to the kitchen-door.

“We?” he asked.

“Yes,” Miranda said, without looking back at him, “I’ve decided that you _will_ be joining me today.”

And then, she disappeared through the door.

James, for once in his life, wasn’t troubled by not having a say in something. If anything, he was pleased by it.

⁎ ⁎ ⁎

In the front seat of Miranda’s car, James felt like a teenager again.

She rolled the windows all the way down and the radio’s volume all the way up as they drove out of town.

Miranda had one of those smiles on her face, so loose and radiant and truthful it made James want to smile, too. He loved how her rosy cheeks would fill as they raised up on her face, curling around her eyes and carving little creases around them, ones that seemed like arrows pointing him home. He loved, above all, the ferocity he’d find in those eyes; they were a lasting flame that not only promised a shelter from a vast and inclement world, but that also promised to burn it down if it needed, too.

In that moment, James felt an unbearable contentment overflow his being. It felt good but odd, too. Often, he would wonder if he was truly _made_ for happiness; often, the answer would be _no_. It was so scarce and so ephemeral, how could it belong to him at all? Melancholy, however, always felt like an old friend, not for its kindness or benignity, but for its constancy.

He also felt the urge, over and over again, to tell Miranda _how badly_ he missed her. He couldn’t, though, because he wasn’t made for that either.

“What are you thinking about?” Miranda asked, glaring at him.

“It’s a lovely day,” _it’s lovely to be here with you_. _I missed you_.

“It is, indeed.” _I missed you, too_.

When _Tongue Tied_ came up, Miranda danced. She swayed her head, throwing her hands up and rolling her shoulders in the rhythm of the song, and looked profoundly ridiculous as she did so. She sang, too, and it was _atrocious_. James loved it, nonetheless. His mind chanted _I miss you, I miss you, I miss you_ as he watched her, an unconquerable smile on his own lips. When she finally looked at him, a goofy grin plastered on her face, James prayed she would know.

Then, the ride was over.

“I need to tell you something,” Miranda said as soon as the car halted by the beach. Her jaunty disposition was replaced by a sudden uneasiness. James became tense, too. “You have to promise me you’ll _at least_ try to be reasonable about it.”

James frowned, but nodded in agreement still.

“I invited Thomas, too.”

Miranda watched as the sudden aggravation brushed off all liveliness from his face.

“I see you don’t like him,” she said, “would you like to tell me why?”

James rolled his eyes, laughing bitterly, and turned to face the sea. The gentle rocking of the waves against the shore rapidly put him back at ease. Then, carefully, he said:

“I didn’t think you’d move on so easily.”

Miranda half laughed half scoffed and James knew, in that moment, exactly where they were headed.

“It’s been a year, James, a year since you fucked off without even saying goodbye to me,” she started. The composure in her voice, laced by a profound scent of hurt, was making it almost unbearable to James to stand. He wanted to yell at her, to storm off, to break everything that came his way. The worst of all, the wanted to break _her_. Leave her as broken and damaged and ruined as he was, “and you think I moved on too easily?”

Given the lack of response, she continued:

“You want to know what? I didn’t move on, James, because I don’t think I had something to move on from. What we had — what we _have_ — isn’t something one simply move on from, isn’t something you leave behind and never look back at and you know that. You’re my best friend, James, and I like to think that I’m yours, too. I like to think, even after being faced with quite the opposite string of demonstration, that I mean to you as much as you mean to me. What if we got drunk and bored a couple of times and fucked? It happens, you know. I doesn’t mean you own me nor that I own you. You don’t feel that way about me and I’m quite sure you know that, too.”

“What do you mean?” James snapped, unable to control the quivering in his voice and the sudden wave of anger that took over him.

“I mean,” Miranda said, in a low appeasing voice, “that you were never in love with me. You weren’t then and you aren’t now.”

When James looked at her, she seemed wounded.

“I –” he tried to say, but Miranda shushed him. James frowned.

“It doesn’t bother me,” she said, recomposing herself, “the fact that you didn’t feel that way about me. What does bother me, though, is that you feel the need to convince yourself that you do. That, James, makes me want to drown you in that _fucking_ sea.”

Before James had the chance to say anything, Miranda got out of the car.

“We should go. Thomas is waiting for us.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just james flint gay panicking for 1,5k words gay   
> and beach   
> and miranda being a lil devil but we still love her with all our hearts

Thomas was wearing _shorts_ , impossibly floral and tiny shorts, and James wanted to hurl himself into the bloody sea.

Not because of the shorts, _of course_ , but because of how obnoxiously pleasant and witty Thomas was, gracefully running around is his fucking floral shorts and unbuttoned shirt — that, insultingly enough, was floral, too — and his bright smiles and his stupid marvelous hair and his stupid alluring eyes. James hated him, _truly_.

“Are you going to sit around and be grumpy all day?” Miranda asked, sitting by his side. She wrapped her arms loosely around his waist and rested her cheek on James’ shoulder, peering at him through gentle eyes. He recognized the gesture as it was — a quiet request for reconciliation and the assurance that she was no longer mad at him. James always envied how forgiving she was, but never quite understood _how_.

“Yes,” he answered, softly.

“What a shame,” she said.

“Yeah.”

Then Thomas, who had been arranging the sunshades and the folding chairs, joined them. He sat by James, so close the flesh of his warm tights were pressed firmly against James’ bent legs, leaning back on his hands and peering shamelessly at him. James, trapped between Miranda and Thomas, became as stiff and tense as the palm trees that towered over them. He was impossibly flushed, too, under their attentive eyes. James wanted to cease to exist, to say the least.

They remained in absolute silence for a couple of minutes, only the crashing of the waves and the squealing of the seagulls aloof fluttering in the dense air around them. However, for James, it seemed to last an _eternity_ ; it was as if time had dismissed from its mind how to work, fatigued by the unceasing, boundless task. Likewise, James’ mind seemed to have forgotten how to function properly, too. His brain had turned into nothing but a pulp, an incompetent and hopeless one, as soon as Thomas’ skin settled against his own. He didn’t know why he felt that way and felt awfully pathetic for doing so.

 _Maybe it’s the touch deprivation_ , he thought, _or maybe I just hate him too much_.

“We should go for a swim!” Miranda proposed after a while, rising to her feet in an enthusiastic motion. James was never so relieved. “The water seems heavenly.”

For their delight, the water was, in fact, _heavenly_.

The gentle caress of the mild waves curling around James’ ankles filled his chest with so much contentment he couldn’t repress the smile that flourished on his lips. It was an inviting gesture, a welcome home. Miranda had already dived, but James took his time. As he walked further into the water, the soft and tepid sand shifting beneath his feet, he felt whole. James had craved that feeling for a long, long time. When the waves became more forceful, seeking for him, he obliged; he let his body be engulfed by the warmth of the water, by its lulling undulation and its faint yet rich briny, salty smell. James moved his arms lazily, in short, circular movements, propelling himself forward along the docile tide, and then he dove. He glided to where the sea became deeper and the water dimmer, as its murmur swirled tenderly around his ears, enveloping him in its sultriness.

James was never so happy.

When he emerged, he saw Miranda back in the shore. She seemed entertained, to say the least, as she laughed forcefully at the scene in front of her.

“Miranda, I’m going to _kill_ you!”

It was Thomas, still on the water, sounding not even nearly as amused.

“If I don’t drown to death first, of course,” he added, dramatically, as a forceful flow of water hit him in a swift motion. James watched with sudden anguish as the wave jolted Thomas forward and then consumed him; it’s just when he resurged over the water with the most baffled look in his face that James was able to breathe again. “I swear to God, Miranda, I’m going to kill you and feed you to the bloody seagulls!”

“What’s going on?” James asked Miranda, already out of the water and standing by her side.

“It’s a long story,” she said, turning to look at him. Her eyes were slightly squinted as she brought a hand to cover her face. “I was trying to teach him how to swim, you see, and he kept complaining that I didn’t know how to, that I was a bad teacher and all, so I left him there as a punishment for doubting my capacities. And now he’s trying to swim,” she answered as Thomas fell back in the water, “but I’m not sure if that,” she pointed at him, “can be called an attempted at anything but to drink all the water of the sea.”

“That’s cruel, even for you,” James said, her devilish grin stretching to his own lips. “Should we help him?”

“Yes. I suppose he learned the lesson. Right, Thomas?” Miranda said, her voice going up a little so Thomas could hear her too.

Miranda, _eventually_ , helped him out of the water. Thomas, as expected, was not the most jubilant person around.

“Thank you, _dear_ ,” Thomas had said as Miranda guided him back to the beach, a keen sourness ensnared by the daintiness of his face. James couldn’t tell if he was truly upset or was just a really good actor. “It’s always good to know that your friends will be the first to let you perish, given the chance.”

 _Friends_.

“Don’t be dramatic, Thomas.”

Friends?

“Don’t you dare calling _me_ dramatic!”

Lovers could call themselves friends, too. Right?

“You’re not making it easy for yourself, love.”

James and Miranda had been _friends_ too, after all.

“I could’ve died!”

Or maybe James had got it all wrong.

“I hardly believe that.”

When the fog of realization dissipated, James saw that Thomas was then sitting on one the folding chairs, his arms folded over his chest and a look of pure resentfulness spread all over his face.

“You’re a terrible friend, Miranda,” Thomas said.

“I’m sorry, love,” Miranda sat by his side, caressing his bare knees; her eyes were filled by a candid fondness, but not an ounce of regret. “Maybe I could compensate you.”

“And how would you do that, exactly?”

Miranda pointed at James. He almost choked.

“James is going to teach you how to swim.”

“I am?” James stepped in, ready to intervene but knowing there would be no negotiation. Miranda was, at best, incredibly obstinate.

“ _He is_.”

When she looked at him, an impish smile curled around her lips, James discovered in her eyes an indecipherable gleam of amusement, a guarded mischievousness he was awfully familiar with. Its intentions, though, were always _too_ ulterior for him to capture.

⁎ ⁎ ⁎

Thomas was holding on to James for dear life.

And James didn’t mind it nearly as much he thought he would.

If courageous enough, one could even dare to ponder if James wasn’t in fact relishing in the unfamiliar rumbling of the heart within his chest and the fluttering sensation whirling inside his stomach. The feeling itself resembled not to butterflies gliding gracefully in the air, but to rather untamed birds trying to escape from its unknown cage.

“You’ve got to let go of me at some point, mate,” James said, “or else I can’t teach you anything.”

The look in Thomas’ face was of utter dread. James felt him clutching tighter to his shoulders, his fingers pressed firmly against his skin, pulling him closer. James felt dizzy.

“We’re not even that deep,” James gasped out in an attempt of soothing the other man, “and I’m here to help you, if you need.”

Thomas nodded, reluctantly; he then closed his eyes for a brief moment, gathering himself from inside out, and released James from his grip. Immediately, James placed his timid hands carefully on his bare, slim waist; the touch was gentle, almost scared, as if Thomas’ skin would simply dismantle under a harsher hold. It took a moment for James to gather himself, too, and wrap his thoughts back around the spindle of his mind.

James guided Thomas downward until only his head was above the water.

“We’ll start with doggy paddling,” James announced, “you know, how kids learn how to swim.”

Thomas gave him a sour look, crunching his face in a caustic smile. Ignoring him, James continued:

“Alright. Now, all you need to do is paddle your arms quickly in front of you and kick your legs back, impelling yourself forward. Got it?”

“Hardly,” Thomas admitted. “I don’t think I can do it.”

“Of course you can,” James assured him. “Just do as I say.”

“What if,” Thomas said, tilting his head back to look at him, “nothing you’re saying to me makes any sense?”

James rolled his eyes, his already thin patience wearing even thinner.

“I’m sorry, _captain_ , did I offend you with my lack of nautical abilities?” Thomas taunted. The theatrical pout in his face _would be_ terribly comical if James wasn’t so annoyed. “Are you, too, going to cast me into the sea and leave me to die?”

“Trust me, if you don’t shut the fuck up, I’ll.”

After that, Thomas went annoyingly quiet. James discovered, then, that Thomas’ expressions were as powerful as his voice; his silence was just as expressive and well-spoken as he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry i took so long to update :( idk why i struggled so much to write this?? probably bc i haven't been to the beach for so long and have no idea how to swim myself :D and online classes (pls kill me)

**Author's Note:**

> so... hi again!  
> i'm not really sure what to say here, but: hey, my name is alex! i'm 20 and i've been obsessed with black sails for some time now and decided to write this fic. it's been a while since i last wrote something like this, so be patient with me :) haha  
> ALSO, english isn't my first language, so if you notice any mistakes, please, feel free to tell me! i'd appreciate that (but do it in a nice way, ok?)  
> i think that's all, then!  
> be safe and i hope you come back soon!


End file.
